


morpho

by chuchisushi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Introspection, Kinda, M/M, Relationship Study, making shit up about the omnic crisis, my beta is sick so, no beta we die like men, not angst or deathfic WHOOPS just realized the summary could be read that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 11:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13234386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a man who did not die alone.Or: Genji and Zenyatta spend a night on a former battlefield.





	morpho

**Author's Note:**

> written as a pitch hit for the genyatta secret santa event on tumblr! i hope you enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: genji is referencing [this myth](http://www.uexpress.com/tell-me-a-story/2010/1/3/the-butterfly-of-love-a-japanese); there are a few variations on it, so i chose common elements of them to riff off of. zenyatta's comment about the moon is referencing [this translation convention](http://lang-8.com/209586/journals/1465774)!

They walk to places that few have been for the strength in their limbs, fueled by the rays of the sun.

The Omnic Crisis had ravaged so much of the land, left swathes of it in tatters that remain, haunted, abandoned, as reminders for the elements and nature to reclaim. Sometimes there are ghosts in these lonely reaches. Sometimes they are just quiet, a stillness of loss that resonates with a tremulous space that quavers behind Genji’s breastbone.

Superstition holds humanity back from piercing these places, and Genji does not begrudge the caution of those people still recovering and rebuilding. These graveyards of scrap metal, these markers of war: they are not meant for casual exploration. They are not safe. They are remnants that are still live in more ways than one – seeded with munitions left from days long past, held in a fragile stasis alongside the weathering remains of men and women deemed too risky to retrieve.

Their footsteps dent the moss they walk on, and Genji follows Zenyatta, the both of them tracing the path of a former pitched battle. He is not afraid that they will fall victim to some long-buried missile or grenade. He trusts in the other to lead them both true. Zenyatta can hear the way the Iris speaks to him of safety, hear the digital hum of danger whispered to him in block-code glyphs – a language that Genji can only catch in snips or smears of data across his consciousness for how he's unable to properly interface with it.

They are deep beyond the furthest distance that any salvager would travel; the wilds have reclaimed this part of the world and the inherent dangers of such a land have come alongside nature to populate the dark. But Genji and Zenyatta, with their solar-charged batteries and their combat skills and their lack of (easily accessible) flesh, are not tempting targets, and so they walk unmolested by the eyes that flash at them in foxfire green and yellow from the underbrush.

Zenyatta rings like temple bells as they travel, as they pass through this long graveyard of man and machine, where ferns curl in the lees of rusted chassis, where small white flowers bloom in the crumbling remnants of body armor. Zenyatta walks paeans, murmurs square-shaped words that pass Genji by, and Genji raises his chin and thinks of the measured chanting of Shinto priests, of Buddhist prayers, of the prick of incense in the depths of his sinuses, and thinks his benedictions alongside. He holds a stillness in his chest that resonates true with this feeling of a funeral undisturbed, and there are butterflies that flutter through the air beside them.

 

“There is a legend,” Genji says, later, “in my homeland. About a butterfly and a man who lived alongside graves. Do you know it?”

Zenyatta looks up at him. The moonlight reflects off of the metal of his frame, compliments and accents the glow of the sensory array that graces his forehead, the nodes on his palms. He regards Genji for a long moment in the sparse light of their portable maintenance units, then rises to reposition himself, settling beside the other, mindful of their mutual wires. “I believe,” he replies, “that I have heard of it. The white butterfly that appeared at the moment of a man’s death, that refused to leave until he had passed, was it not?”

“That’s correct.” Genji watches the treeline, listens to the faint sounds of tree frogs and the rustle of wildlife passing them by. He leans to the side, and Zenyatta holds solid, taking some of Genji’s weight. “It’s a story about devotion.”

“Not about love?”

“About that, too. But more about devotion, to me.”

Zenyatta is silent for a long moment, gaze turned outwards as well. Then, he says, “I don’t believe I would thank you for waiting so long beside what remained. I would like to think that I would have left you with the resolve to continue your journey. With the strength of my conviction in your possibilities.”

Then he makes a sound like a laugh, low, thrumming in his voicebox. “Ah, but who am I to say such things? There is an appeal to the story, it is true; and I am only an omnic, not programmed for love. There is not a romantic bone in my body!”

Genji, who has woken more times than he can count to the sound of Zenyatta’s mechanisms turning over in his chest, who has had Zenyatta keep him needless company as he ate, who had been persistently, stubbornly haunted for the potential his happiness could bring, who has experienced the thousand myriad ways that Zenyatta shows him that he loves him a hundred times and more, smiles. Swallows his mouthful of nutrient gel to laugh. “Ah yes. You are truly the soul of pragmatism. No flights of fancy here.”

The lights of Zenyatta’s array flicker as though echoing Genji’s mirth, the mala about his neck ringing softly with chimes. They settle comfortably into the silence that follows, willingly wordless for how speech is unnecessary.

“I believe,” Zenyatta says, later, and Genji makes a soft noise of curiosity, roused from the edge of slumber, “that I prefer, instead, this sentiment.” Zenyatta shifts beneath him, and Genji opens his eyes. “The moon is beautiful tonight, is it not?”

Genji watches the gently illuminated curve of Zenyatta’s faceplate. Tips his head back where it is laid upon Zenyatta’s thigh to take in the expanse of the stars above, the spill of the Milky Way, and the celestial glow of the heavens. He feels the still space behind his breastbone blossom and unfurl sweet petals. He closes his eyes.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “It is too beautiful for words.”

He leaves the rest unspoken. When Zenyatta hums at a pitch that sends Genji’s bones thrumming in his frame, he knows that the other had heard what had been left unsaid. He welcomes the comfort of the weight of a metal hand against the back of his neck, coming to rest against him when he tucks his face in against Zenyatta’s hip.

“In the morning,” Zenyatta says gently, “we will wake. And then we will walk our paths side by side. Together.

“That is our devotion. Is it not, Genji?”

“ _I love you_ ,” is Genji’s breathed reply, soft, in his native tongue. He lets himself slip fully into slumber, reassured by the slight weight of that hand.

When he dreams, he dreams of blue butterflies landing light upon a beloved metal frame.


End file.
